


with you all along

by chryysaskk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Day 2: Potions, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, the boy has a knife and he's feral sorry i don't make the rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chryysaskk/pseuds/chryysaskk
Summary: "You are an idiot, Geralt of Rivia. You think that, eventually, you are all alone and will be until the end of your days. You say you don’t need anyone and yet, here I am, bandaging your wounds and singing your triumphs. You need people and you care about them more than you say you do, but refuse to admit any of it, and you harm yourself in the end. Tell me I’m wrong."orJaskier has some unfortunate encounters and Geralt's potions lack any sense of timing at all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 199





	with you all along

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this fic for day 2 of [geralt whump week](https://geraltwhumpweek.tumblr.com/post/618323636047265792/announcing-geralt-whump-week-this-is-a) with the prompt 'potions'.  
> title from welly boots by the amazing devil (yes again stop)  
> im still not really confident about this one but anyway, i hope you enjoy!  
> kudos or comments are wholeheartedly appreciated if you reach the end <3

“For real, now, Geralt, you can’t just expect me to stay here and wait, it’s not like I’ve never seen a kikimore before,” Jaskier rested his hands on his hips pouting and circled Geralt to stand in front of him. Roach snorted beside him as if in agreement and nudged his shoulder. “And you can’t also leave Roach behind,” the bard added and raised his eyebrows expectantly.  
  
Geralt glanced at him for a moment and then returned his attention to removing some bottles with colourful elixirs from the saddlebag and putting them in his satchel. “I’m not asking you to stay; it’s out of the question. And as you said, you’ve seen a kikimore before. No new song is coming out of this one.”  
  
“How dare you doubt the impetuosity of my galloping imagination and the object of my inspiration in one sentence? I’ve seen a kikimore before but no one can guess what new dangers we will have to face with this one!” Jaskier let his enthusiasm subside after he received a glare from the witcher and he shrugged. Well, Geralt was partly right, no song was worth the danger, but the thing is, this was not a _great_ danger. He’d been in great danger a fair amount of times before and he could tell when he had to retreat to an argument. That was not the case right now though, so he spread his arms expectantly. “And anyway, what about Roach?”  
  
Geralt stopped moving for a moment as if a thought flashed in his mind and then proceeded to close the satchel. “Roach stays ‘cause the innkeeper asked so. So that he’ll be sure I will return and won’t leave the kikimore alive.”  
  
Jaskier scoffed. “Bollocks. You never get paid before the job’s done and besides, since when do you listen to what–”  
  
“ _Jaskier._ ” Geralt’s growl interrupted him and he frowned in confusion. Geralt kept his eyes fixed on him for some seconds and then sighed. “It’s just out of the village. And we’re almost out of coin. But,” he paused and took a look around cautiously, as if somebody could be hearing, “You keep an eye on the people here… They’re… unsettling.”  
  
Jaskier swallowed considering the witcher’s worry and then huffed indifferently. “A song or two will cheer them up. But really, Geralt, I can’t just spy on people…” He saw Geralt raising an eyebrow sarcastically and smirked. “I can’t just spy on people while _you_ , my dear, are out there and in danger.”  
  
Geralt shook his head tiredly and started walking past the bard. “No danger for me."  
  
“Yeah, of course, o mighty Witcher, no danger at all!” Jaskier let his arms fall on his sides exasperated. “The last time you said that I had to drag you out of a swamp after those damn potions had you half-dead before you’d even noticed. You won’t even manage to be here before they wear off this time!”  
  
Geralt didn’t bother to turn around; he just hummed and fastened his step. “I’ve already paid for dinner. I won’t be late.” He heard the bard heave a deep, resigned sigh and take some steps forwards before stopping. Again, he didn’t look around. If he did, he might regret leaving him. Yet he’d better brighten the moods of the people here if he wanted the witcher to get a decent payment. They were unsettling, the people. Dark, hostile glares, cautious words, a doubtful agreement. And Geralt didn’t bother, he really didn’t, he’d received many of those over the years and wouldn’t ever stop, no matter Jaskier’s honest attempts to improve this. He didn’t bother.  
  
No, what actually pestered him and poked at his gut in the form of continuous uncertainty was the fact that those same glares, those same snarky words were also directed at Jaskier, albeit his charming smiles and kind words. They were hard times, people were suspicious, distanced. He knew. And it was not the first time they’d visited this kind of village together. And yet, it felt odd. Unsettling.  
  
A scent of anxiety was floating in the air. It didn’t come from him.  
  
He quickened his pace.

  
  


~~

  
  


Geralt was late.  
  
He was late and although Jaskier still wasn’t out of songs to perform, he gave up on trying cheering the sparse crowd of the inn. He set his lute aside and sat on the bench almost spiritless, taking a sip of ale and looking around attentively. He didn’t like the crowd; he’d worked with more enthusiastic ones admittedly. Those people were reserved, peculiar. Didn’t mouth a single song during the whole performance, didn’t crack a single smile. Jaskier could swear some hadn’t even turned their eyes on him. And if they did, their look was indifferent, almost hostile. There was no need to try gaining their trust any longer.  
  
Apart from that, Jaskier was tired. They’d been travelling mostly on foot for almost a week now. Well, _he_ was travelling on foot. And he longed for a soft bed and a good night’s sleep and would give his soul to actually go and sleep right now. But he couldn’t. Firstly, he couldn’t because he had to keep watching for the people here and he would even admit he felt shivers in the thought of going to sleep alone in an empty room in this particular inn. Not because of lacking defence, he perfectly knew how to defend himself, thank you very much. But still, it didn’t feel right to isolate himself here. Geralt was right. They were unsettling.  
  
Secondly, he could not go to sleep because Geralt was late. And it was no big deal that he was late, it would not be the first time. What bothered him was that he said he wouldn’t be. That he was alone. And also the uncomfortable glances he received from time to time from the innkeeper, a couple of men sitting at the bar and another one who had just entered panting. Uncomfortable for him. For them, they probably felt rancorous.  
  
He took another sip and stretched his ears without looking at them. He couldn’t discern any coherent phrases at first, only scattered words. _Bard, together, coin, arriving. Mutant_. Jaskier felt like he’d been punched in the gut, but not with force, only slightly, as a warning. A warning to get up and leave. He could pretty easily light up one of those amusing arguments he usually had about the wholesome humanity of witchers that most of the times ended in a fight which Geralt had to pull him from, and he was actually close to starting one more of them until he moved awkwardly on his seat and received another glare from one of the men that made him freeze in his tracks. He snorted silently, cleared his throat and slightly wriggled his foot to ensure the presence of a knife inside his boot. It was there.  
  
He stood up as slowly as he could and, feeling all eyes fixed on his back, he headed to the door. He loved attention usually, but this was not the case. He had just passed by the men at the bar when he heard a voice behind him and started.  
  
“Oi, bard! Where are you goin’?”  
  
He turned around to the voice of the man at the bar and put on his kindest, least anxious smile. “You will excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m in need of some ai–”  
  
“Shame.” The second man smiled malevolently and Jaskier glanced at the door, now guarded by another man much more huge than the three he hardly considered the chances of beating. He swallowed hard. The man kept talking undaunted. “Why won’t you sing us more songs of your monster friend? They’re so enchanting.”  
  
Jaskier knew perfectly well this was no time for him to oppose. He did anyway. “My friend is no more of a monster than you are, you scum!” He clenched his fists and took advantage of the loud voice he previously held back from bursting. “He’s out there fighting what kills your children, saving their lives and yours!”  
  
“Oh, we’re not much different then, you’re right.” The men stood in front of him and they were not three anymore, but he only could count up to five without his heart beating out of his chest. “You see, we too kill monsters. And anything that comes with them.”  
  
Knives.  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
Jaskier ducked as the first blade whistled above his head and gripped his own knife, wasting no time as he stabbed the man on the back, leaving him screaming while he knifed another one’s thigh, trying to head to the door, now unguarded since everyone seemed to be after him. He had to remain composed, that’s what Geralt had told him to do during any fight. But with a dozen of men attacking him from all sides, this kind of advice was hardly practicable, _damn you, Geralt._ Another man came towards him and he raised his hand to strike but before he could move his arms were trapped in the man’s strong grip. _Oh, that will hurt_. He closed his eyes and smacked the man on the head with his own, having him stumble to the ground before he also saw the room swirling. He panted, shook his head. He was close to the door; if he reached he would find the handle. He did.  
  
Then he felt pain burning his body and a knife came out bloody from his side.

  
  


~~

  
  


It was an easy job, Geralt thought.  
  
Not the first and definitely not the last kikimore he had killed during his long life.  
  
Easy job.  
  
And it would be. Yes, it would be if his damn sword hadn’t got lost in the lake until he found it again in despair, struggling for the life of him to escape the monster’s talons under the water with his breath shortening with every passing second. He had found the sword, thanks to the vibrations of his medallion, otherwise it would remain hidden under a cut off kikimore paw at the bottom of the lake and they wouldn’t even manage to bury him with it. He’d found it, and he’d stabbed the monster furiously, his patience and endurance barely hanging from a single thread. Then he had limped out of the lake, soaked to the bone, his thigh bleeding, cursing the moment he had taken up the contract because since then not a single thing had gone the right way.  
  
And it didn’t have any intention to, as he realized quickly after walking a few meters. Because it was then when he felt the effects of the potions starting to wear off, and it was the least appropriate time, and he also cursed the moment he decided it would not harm to leave Roach behind. The village was less than a mile away and that was the only thought that kept him going. That and the fact that a bugging concern about nothing in particular kept poking on him since the second he stepped out of the village gates. Nothing had gone the right way. And it definitely didn’t have any intention to.  
  
His legs felt heavier with each step. In his darkest hours, he would probably admit that Jaskier was right to question his decision to hunt all alone, as if he hadn't been for all those years before they met. This particular hour though still had not become one of those hours. It had good chances to, he thought as he cursed under his breath for the hundredth time the second he saw the gates popping out behind the trees. They were wide open, in contrast to the last two times he crossed them, and he would be a fair amount of suspicious about that if his mind could conceive any other thought than that of throwing himself onto a bed. He grunted and fastened his step as more as he could, feeling his body getting cold and his nape going numb.  
  
He took one step past the gates and stopped. No guards. The streets were empty.  
  
A cat hissed at him hidden in a corner.  
  
And then loud voices and curses sounded from the far end of the street and before he even managed to consider them he felt something moving behind him and unsheathed his sword to strike. Only that the fading potions were muddling his movements. And he was slow. Not too slow to miss, but slow enough not to avoid the blade of a sword cutting through the armour and deep across his abdomen. He stumbled back as the beheaded body of the man before him fell on the ground and he shook his head, gathering as much strength he had left to strike another man that ran to attack him. The slash on his abdomen was barely burning, but the potions were still wearing off and, damn, it was deep. He parried and his sword was crossed with the man’s, but he pushed him hard before he twirled to repel another sword lowering on him. They were four, maybe five; he shook his head again and grunted, trying to retain his consciousness. The cut was now burning, and it was bleeding, and he could feel it. It certainly didn’t make things any better. He parried, and attacked, and dodged again and almost lost his step and he could have been dead if the man attacking him didn’t suddenly gape in pain and stumble to the ground with a knife protruding from his back. Geralt squinted, he thought he heard galloping. Three men were circling him now. He heard his name.  
  
He knew this knife.  
  
The men scattered in fear and he just managed to look up and catch the hand reaching for him before he was under the horse’s hooves. Instead, he found himself on the horse’s saddle. He grunted. Roach’s saddle. And in front of him Jaskier, in his bright yellow doublet, staring at him with eyes wide with terror and calling his name.  
  
“Geralt! Geralt, answer me, hey, Ger–”  
  
“What?!” He swayed slightly and wrapped his hands around the bard’s waist. He saw him sighing with relief, but the tension didn’t leave his body. Geralt frowned, feeling hot liquid flowing between his fingers. “Why are you…” He raised his hand, saw blood flowing down his hand, and his heart fluttered as he looked at Jaskier again. “You’re bleeding.”  
  
An arrow ripped the air beside them, and then a second. Jaskier reined Roach and huffed humorlessly. “Yeah, I noticed. You too.”  
  
“Jaskier!” He wanted to keep talking but another arrow whipped above their heads and Jaskier led Roach into the forest without slowing their pace, and Geralt was exhausted and numb. He snorted and rested his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder with a hum. “What happened?”  
  
“Oh, don't fret… Nothing out of the usual.” Jaskier’s voice was softer than before, and bitter, and the bard smiled instinctively as he felt Geralt’s warm breath on the back of his neck. Warming the coldness the pain had thrown his body into. He cupped the witcher’s hand on his waist with his own. “Sleep now, dear. Sleep.”  
  
Geralt didn’t have the voice to object. He closed his eyes. The arrows stopped whipping.

  
  


~~

  
  


He didn't know how long he was unconscious. He would either walk in complete darkness or stumble in and out of vivid dreams that left him trembling and sweating, dreams and nightmares, even the ones that hadn't visited him for a long time. Every now and then he would catch glimpses of a different place, one much more peaceful than that of his dreams, where he would lay on the ground and a soft, familiar voice would hum beside him, and he thought the voice was shaking and breaking sometimes, just like it did in his nightmares, the same voice. He didn't want it to shake, it was not right.  
  
Yet he couldn't do anything about it. Only to escape. So he slept again, for he preferred to hear that voice shaking only in his nightmares. At least those he knew were not real.  
  
He barely managed to crack his eyes open once before the pain hit him like a wave, reminding him why he was not awake. He tilted his head, searching with his look for something, he didn’t even know what. But he had to find it, because he couldn’t hear the voice anymore, and his heart skipped a beat and he tried to raise himself on his elbows, but fell back with a wince and then the voice was there, beside him, placing a hand on his chest to keep him back, smelling of tears and blood. It was not right. It should smell of lavender and wildflowers. It should sound bright and clear and warm, like the sun on the back of his neck. Now it was broken, and whispering like a wail. But he heard it and at least, _at least_ , it was still warm.  
  
“Sleep, Geralt. Sleep, dear. I’m here.”  
  
In his darkest hours, the voice was right. So again, he closed his eyes.

  
  


~~

  
  


It was the sound of cicadas that woke him at dusk, and at last, no pain accompanied the return of his senses. He guessed it was the cicadas anyway, and not the sudden feeling of overwhelming warmth and the little bit of extra weight that was added upon his chest. He snorted and half-opened his eyes, his gaze meeting the red-painted sky reigning behind the trees. A sudden neigh was heard near him and he turned his head, resting on a pile of blankets, to see Roach sensing him awake and wiggling her tail. He hummed. She did that.  
  
And then it went silent.  
  
The cicadas had not stopped singing, neither had the last birds chirping on the trees. Still, the sound he expected to hear when he woke up, feeling as expectable as the fact that he would be laying on the ground, was now yet to be heard. If he had fully come to his senses, he wouldn’t probably freeze with a momentary panic that pierced his skin, only to be reminded of the warmth on his side and the weight of his chest by a flinch and look down to see Jaskier’s dishevelled head rested on him and his shoulders shaking softly with sharp breathing. He swallowed. That was way too close.  
  
Yet he found himself barely minding at all, as an arbitrary hand was raised and he gently tangled his fingers on Jaskier’s tawny locks. Suddenly the weight on his chest felt too heavy. He could have this. He wanted to have this. He could think of every morning he would wake up like this, with a warm breath against his skin and the smell of lavender he so loved. He could think of every night he would go to sleep with a low, sweet voice whispering or singing beside him, about him. Oh, how he loved that voice. If it was up to him, he would never let it shake and tremble again. Just like it did in his nightmares. Just like it did when he’d heard it that day. Just like it did… now.  
  
“Geralt, _please_ …”  
  
His fingers stopped moving between the locks and he caught a glimpse of the bard’s face, distorted in an expression of fear and pain. He’d seen that expression again. Didn’t like it, not at all.  
  
His arm embraced Jaskier’s trembling shoulder and he shook him slightly, and then shook again. Nightmares had to go away, even if he would wake up breathless and sick. He shook again. Jaskier flinched, mumbled, and the trembling stopped. He went silent for a second. And then he jerked up, his cheeks painted pink and he looked around in sweat, finally resting his eyes on Geralt and almost sobbing.  
  
“Oh, _thank the gods_!” His eyes were wide and he felt his fingers shaking with tension. Geralt didn’t speak, he just tilted his head, his look fixed on him intensely. He heaved a deep sigh of relief and shook his head. “Don’t you _dare_ do this again, I won’t ever again stay behind if I’m to find you half-dead once again, you understand?” He drew closer to a still silent Geralt and pushed him back on the blankets. He met no resistance and smiled shortly, raising his eyebrow at the witcher and unbuttoning his shirt to examine the bandage.  
  
Geralt sighed and rested his head back. This man was really stopped by nothing, as he realized while unable to take his eyes off him. Gods, he was beautiful, cheeks flushed and eyes still hazy from sleep, like a child that had just woken up, although he was far from being one. And yet a weird feeling was punching his gut, a feeling that, as he looked into those cornflower-blue eyes, something was out of place. He snorted, returning his attention to the undaunted rambling beside him. “Jaskier…”  
  
“But, of course, I know, no danger for you, o mighty Witcher, you need no one et cetera, et cetera, well look at you now!” Jaskier unwrapped the bandage to reveal a scar whose redness was the only thing reminding of the wound that had been there. He pointed at it without taking his eyes off Geralt. “Do you have any idea how deep was that thing? It took the sweat of my forehead to clean and tend to it, all the while you were mumbling nonsense and having those horrible dreams of yours. Oh, Geralt, I can’t stand watching you have nightmares, it breaks my poor heart.” He shook his head, throwing the bandage aside and deepening his voice in imitation as he made to stand up. “ _No danger for me_ ; whatever, if it weren’t for those damn potions –”  
  
He stopped abruptly as he put his foot on the ground, winced with a sharp breath and fell on the grass again. He saw Geralt frowning and his eyes flashing as if he remembered something. And he did, because he lowered his look on Jaskier’s right side where the shirt was painted red with blood and his heart skipped a beat. Jaskier swallowed, cleared his throat and made to stand up again.  
  
“What was I saying? Ah, yes, the potions…”  
  
A hand wrapping around his forearm stopped him and he looked at Geralt almost with guilt. Geralt waited for a moment, as if for Jaskier to stop him, then loosened his grip and drew closer. Jaskier shook his head.  
  
“Really, Geralt, I’m fine, just applied one of those salves of yours –”  
  
“Just let me see it.”  
  
Geralt’s voice was low, and calm, calmer than usual, and his golden eyes pierced Jaskier like blades. He looked at him for a moment, then snorted resigned, lowering his eyes and unbuttoned his shirt. He’d taken care of the wound, he didn’t want it to matter anyway, this whole thing was about Geralt taking care of himself, about him being damn careful, not one stupid stab of the several Jaskier had experienced in his short life. And yet, it hurt, it hurt _a lot_ now that he moved and he’d be damned if he didn’t admit it. He glanced at Geralt who was now kneeled before him as if he hadn’t been comatose five minutes ago. He shook his head.  
  
“I would use a bit of your healing abilities, if you should know,” he chuckled but any hint of humour left his voice when he felt Geralt’s calloused fingers unwrapping the bandage and gently pressing the skin around the wound. He closed his eyes, sighed shakily and then hissed, as the witcher’s soft touch sent a wave of pain through his body.  
  
Geralt looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Jaskier let out a silent huff and nodded. “Nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Not just that.” Geralt looked at him for a second longer, then wrapped the bandage again around the bard’s waist and drew an inch back, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry for leaving you there. I knew the people were up to no good.” He paused and glanced up for a moment. The faint smile curving Jaskier’s lips warmed his chest like a fire. He shook his head. “I should have guessed.”  
  
Silence fell. Unusual state for the bard, a state that made Geralt fidget with the fabric of his shirt like a child waiting to be scolded and then get angry at himself for being such a fool even now, still avoiding Jaskier’s eyes, as if the smile he previously saw was no more than an illusion. He didn't know what he was waiting for. So he made to stand up.  
  
And then a warm hand was cupping his cheek and he froze and finally, _finally_ raised his look and almost drowned in the sea of the bard's eyes, and Jaskier smiled, oh so lovingly, and shook his head.  
  
"You are an idiot, Geralt of Rivia. You think that, eventually, you are all alone and will be until the end of your days. You say you don’t need anyone and yet, here I am, bandaging your wounds and singing your triumphs. You need people and you care about them more than you say you do, but refuse to admit any of it, and you harm yourself in the end. Tell me I’m wrong."  
  
Geralt swallowed. He could feel Jaskier's fingers shaking, then lingering on his face for some seconds before slipping away and he almost whimpered in the absence of warmth he suddenly noticed. He felt as if he had been laid down and cut in half to reveal every feeling storming in his heart, even those he didn’t know he had. Even those he said he didn’t have. He moved his lips, as if to protest, as if any sound was ever able to come out of his mouth while he looked at Jaskier. As if the bard was wrong.  
  
Oh.  
  
He was not wrong.  
  
Jaskier felt his fingers twitching on the witcher’s knee and swallowed around a lump in his throat. He huffed and lowered his look with a shake of his head.  
  
“Maybe I’m wrong. You’re the only one who can tell. But if I’m right about one thing,” his gaze met Geralt’s again and he smiled, “it’s that you’re not alone in this, Geralt. And I don’t know about other people, but I know that I’m going to be there, to drag you from swamps, to sing about you, to talk until you go mad. You can’t get rid of me.” Jaskier laughed as he saw Geralt’s lips curving a bit without taking his golden eyes off him. He tilted his head. “So since you’re never going to stop pouring that stuff into your body,” he pointed at the saddlebag containing the potions, “at least don’t leave me behind again. And I’m not asking you either.”  
  
Geralt’s eyes were shining, Jaskier noticed as the last light of the sunset vanished on the horizon. They were shining with a glow he’d rarely seen before, and it was so beautiful he felt shivers running down his spine. And he waited for an answer, but Geralt rarely was one to give answers, so he made to button up his still-open shirt. But then a hand was on his wrist and he raised his head flustered to see Geralt lowering their entwined hands back on his knee, and smiling. His skin was warm.  
  
“Thank you, Jaskier.”  
  
A wild shade of pink painted the bard’s cheeks and Geralt knew certain feelings he said he didn’t have were dancing inside him. Jaskier’s blue eyes were shining as he chuckled and squeezed his hand.  
  
“Any time.”  
  
The sun had set.  
  
Geralt rarely left him behind after that. And if he did, he would return before the potions wore off. And Jaskier would still be there.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr [wanderlust-t](https://wanderlust-t.tumblr.com/)


End file.
